


Song of Salt

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Degrading Praise, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Fingering, M/M, Pining, Prince Damianos & Slave Laurent (Captive Prince), Questionably Happy Ending, Rough Sex, Sexposition, Sexual Slavery, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crown Prince Laurent of Vere finds himself in a treacherous situation when the uncle ships him to Akielos in the guise of a pleasure slave. Worse yet, he is given to Kastor.
Relationships: Damen & Kastor (Captive Prince), Damen/Jokaste (Captive Prince), Jokaste/Kastor (Captive Prince), Kastor/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 98
Collections: Anonymous, Captive Prince





	1. Chapter 1

When the ship arrived from Vere, Theomedes had it searched top to bottom—searched for an assassin that must surely be hiding in the hold. And when he found nothing, he had the pets searched. Arrogant things that let out pretty squeals as the guards touched them. The Regent of Vere had sent them over as a sign of good faith. 

As they gathered into the hall for the viewing, Damianos stood transfixed.

Among the dozen of them, one was bound and gagged. The cloth dug harsh, red lines into the sides of his delicate face, and bruises purpled themselves along his wrists and ankles. He wore no jewels. 

He was pale. Impossibly so. And that made the marks all the more apparent. But binds and bruises could hide nothing of the pet’s startling beauty. His hair, soft and yellow as a primrose, framing fine-boned features, all upon a trim body that he’d love to feel beneath his own. 

Amidst those shades of ivory and gold, his eyes were ice, and as Damianos took a single step forward, he found himself frozen to the spot. It was the first time anyone had looked at him like that. How such a face was capable of twisting itself with such hatred only made him more curious. 

“Remove his gag,” Damianos ordered. Even after his mouth was free, the pet did not speak. 

Damianos moved closer and the pet recoiled with each step, practically folding into himself as Damianos came to kneel beside him. He smelled of ocean salt, unlike the other pets—heavily perfumed with expensive Veretian oils. 

Damianos asked, “What’s your name?” 

Nothing still. 

“This must be a first for you, Damen,” came Kastor’s voice from behind. “You just had to choose the one who wasn’t itching to jump on your cock.” 

“Kastor.” With one word, Theomedes brought his eldest son to silence. Damianos turned to meet his father’s gaze. Theomedes said, “He is not wrong. This one will need to be trained.” 

Adrastus would have a field day with this bunch. Spoiled, undisciplined, foul-mouthed. It would be a wonder if they would even speak through the amount of _chalis_ they’d be given. This one here, reduced to a slack-mouthed mess, made heat pool deep within Damianos’ gut. 

“And what of the others?” 

“For now, let us enjoy the charms of the Veretian pets.” 

“Father,” Kastor spoke carefully. The corners of his lips curled up into a smirk. “Might I break in this pet?” 

The breath caught in Damianos’ throat. Looking back at the slave, his blue eyes had gone very wide. No anger, no defiance, just abject horror at the prospect of belonging to Kastor. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession beneath his bindings. 

To Theomedes, Damianos said, “Father, I would prefer to be the one to—” 

“—to spoil him rotten until he slits your throat in the nighttime,” Kastor said. “Father, the Crown Prince cannot dally in such petty affairs. Give him an easy whore. I’ll take care of this one.” 

The silence settled around them, heavy in Damianos’ ears as he felt the pounding of his heart ring through them. Neither he nor his brother dared to interject. 

Theomedes leaned his weight onto one leg, bringing a and up to stroke at his beard thoughtfully. His dark eyes traveled between his sons, between his beloved heir and ambitious bastard. What both of them might do if given such an exotic gift. 

He said, “I give him to Kastor.” 

“But Father—” 

“Not another word on this matter.” Theomedes’ tone, though mild, was imperious. “He is Kastor’s to use as he sees fit. That is all.” 

As they made to leave the hall, Damianos spared one last look at the blonde pet, who only met him with a frosty glare. Damianos felt an unusual rush of relief at the sight. This one would not be broken. 


	2. Chapter 2

The Akielons called it the First Night. 

A horrific ritual in which and enslaved innocent was dociled by their god-forsaken _pleasure drug_ , trained like an animal, and made to believe that they enjoyed being raped by their new master. To serve them until their faces tarnished, whereupon they’re cast aside for a newer, younger fancy. Unlike the pets of Vere, these poor souls did not know themselves to be replaceable. 

Laurent’s skin had turned red and raw as they’d scrubbed away at it, his collar and cuffs polished, his body—prepared. Not the practical manner in which a Veretian servant might have done for a pet before their turn in the ring, rather small, gentle ministrations with oils that coated him with the scent of apricot. 

Had his stomach held any food he surely would have spilled it. 

The gold collar burned against his neck, worsened by the steaming heat of the baths. More than once, Laurent had scratched away at the metal, chipping his nails in the process. They filed those down too. A shame. He would have liked a chance to claw at Kastor’s eyes. 

They drew him from the waters. Toweled him down. 

“Here,” a slave boy’s lilting voice beckoned him. Careful fingers made for his throat and Laurent instinctively swatted the boy’s hand away. 

The boy yelped, almost dropping the small pot he was holding. Laurent cringed at the sound. In his best Akielon, “I am sorry.” But the sound came out wrong: his voice roughened from disuse and carrying no sympathy. “Are you hurt?” 

The boy shook his head, water dappling from his damp hair. His hand returned to Laurent’s throat, fingers coated in some kind of scented cream. It was cool against the chaffed skin it found. 

Laurent held himself very still. When the boy was done with his neck, he moved to Laurent’s wrist, rubbing small, attentive circles at Laurent’s pulse points. 

“I am done,” said the boy. His words were simple. For Laurent’s sake, he realized. 

Laurent nodded. 

Every step from the baths was one step closer to his _claiming_. They wrapped him in diaphanous, crimson silks that hid nothing of his form. Then came the jewels and paint. Gilt brush strokes tickling at his cheeks and lips and it was somehow worse because Laurent felt as though it might never leave his skin. And the jewelry wrapped around the curves of his body in an illusion of sensuality. 

The air outside the baths chilled him through the windows of his garments, but Laurent refused to shiver in the presence of the Akielons. 

Before his First Night, there would be a feast to celebrate the newfound camaraderie between Akielos and Vere. The Veretian ambassador, Guion, would break bread with the King. Guion who did not care for his Prince’s plight, Guion who whored out his own son just as easily. 

The slave handler, Adrastus, gave the pets a once over. When his gave fell upon Laurent, he had him chained. It was made of gold. They did not even grant him the dignity of a real chain—he was not a threat. 

They used the trinket to drag him into the main hall and brought him to kneel before the high table. As his forehead hit the floor in forced prostration, Laurent felt the eyes of every Akielon noble on him, burning holes through his flimsy silks. 

Worst of all, he heard their appreciative hums. 

Laurent was not a child anymore. He knew exactly what these barbarians wanted to do with him— _would_ do with him. Kastor, by virtue of being a prince, just so happened to be granted the First Night. His silks would be torn from him, his paint smeared, and body debauched. If the bastard had any kindness in him, he would press Laurent face-down into the mattress and make it quick. 

A sharp tug at the chain yanked his gaze upwards and Laurent glared into the eyes of the men that killed his family. 


	3. Chapter 3

The nature of his beauty had an odd antithesis. A delicate countenance fit for any celestial mural. A body honed to a finer edge than the swords it could wield. An icy disposition swathed in flowing silks, red as blood, dripping in jewels too heavy for his face. 

A slave as bold as a highborn’s second son. 

Damianos allowed himself the harmless fantasy of the slave in more fitting garb, rather than the red of the Akielon royal family—chosen in attempt to appease them. 

He would look best in blues and whites, with winks of silver woven into his golden hair. He would look a nymph descended, indulging men more than a mere feast. A cold moon on a dark, shivering night, wreathed in the sun’s most vivid fire. 

The court had all gone quiet the moment he had been brought into the hall. Awed into silence by this antithesis. 

The handlers brought him to prostrate before the high table, though they held him down through his struggling. When he finally managed a glance up, it was one of pure hatred. 

Again, he had Damianos fascinated. 

Much to the chagrin of his presumed fiancée. Though, the Lady Jokaste had never favored Damianos’ predilection for anyone that wasn’t her. Whether it was someone she deemed beneath her or someone she deemed beneath the Crown Prince, it was always apparent in the arch of her golden brows. Seeing her so near the slave—how alike they were in beauty and barbs—was thrilling. 

The other pets were presented with far more care, all of them throwing half-lidded gazes at the high table, the fall of their silks ensuring to boast their _best_ attributes. 

A handler presented the golden slave’s chain to Kastor, who immediately yanked it taut, pushing a strangled sound past the slave’s lips. 

“Come here,” Kastor said. Knowing better than to respond, the slave did as was bid, sitting upon a cushion at Kastor’s side with an obedient grace that almost had Damianos smiling. 

When everyone had settled into their proper place, Theomedes stood, raising his cup in toast. 

“Tonight,” he said. “we celebrate our newfound amity with the kingdom of Vere, a nation with whom we have previously warred. Their surrender at Marlas was the first step towards peace.” 

The Veretian pets stirred but otherwise did not react. 

“Tonight we shall meet them halfway. Tonight we put old grievances to rest and stand together, not as enemies, but as allies alongside the Ambassador Guion and all of our Veretian brothers in the north.” 

Damianos drained his cup. 

The palace slaves began serving the dinner—figs stuffed with cheese and honey, steamed fish caught fresh that morning, marinated racks of lamb on fragrant beds of rice—the air soon filling with the heavy scent of wine and spice. 

Kastor did not trust the slave enough to serve him. He rested on his knees by Kastor’s side, the length of his chain wrapped in Kastor’s hand, tender throat completely at his mercy. 

Given his demeanor, the slave would likely pour dinner into Kastor’s lap. And the image of it was not unlike how Damianos had envisioned the leopards rumored to be tied to Empress Vishkar’s throne. 

Kastor placed his hand on the slave’s head. His pale form stiffened as Kastor’s fingers carded his hair, dark against the bright gold strands. Damianos watched the line of the slave’s back, a bowstring ready to snap, and wondered what it would take to make him unwind. 

Damianos could almost feel the chill on his lips as he would press them against the slave, slowly, very slowly, making his way down that line. From the dip of his neck to the knolls of his spine, and the small of his back. 

He’d be gentle with this one. An obvious, though reluctant, virgin. He did not drape himself, easily as one’s own clothing, over courtly laps as the pets had done. He did not presume. 

Eventually, the feast progressed to a point where wine flowed more than words. 

Damianos and Kastor had been sat on either side of their father, but Theomedes had switched positions with Kastor in order to better speak with the Kyros of Ellium. And so, leaning back and inclining his head towards his brother, Damianos asked, “Has he eaten yet?” and nodded at the slave. 

Before even acknowledging him, Kastor finished off his cup and another slave dutifully refilled it. 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Why don’t you find out?” 

“It’s not something I particularly care about.” 

Damianos said it then, “I want to watch you feed him.” 

_That_ caught Kastor’s attention. In the pause following the shape of Damianos’ final words and in the ripple of excitement that passed between the two of them. 

“Very well, brother.” 

A quick flick of his dark eyes over the feast had him plucking a melomakarona from one of the platters and Damianos felt a strange flutter of relief at the sight. If the slave had not been as coddled as the others, he might not have been able to stomach much. Spiced, honeyed, and sprinkled with crushed walnuts—Damianos had enjoyed a great many of these sweets on languorous days at the summer palace. 

Kastor brought the sweet to the slave’s mouth. “Open up.” 

The slave had gone pale the moment Kastor had moved closer to him. His eyes were up at them, more unnerved than frightened. He blinked. 

“Open up,” Kastor repeated. Jokaste had grown interested, her slim fingers curling around Damianos’ arm as she peered out from behind it. 

“Maybe he doesn’t speak,” she said. “I heard that some Veretians find it charming.” 

“But he understands,” Damianos inclined his head towards his brother’s outstretched arm. “Eat.” 

The slave’s mouth tightened, lines of disgust marring the expanse of his skin like a crack in the marble. Damianos could see the sinewy slide of his muscles as he slinked closer. Carefully, he had a bit of the melomakarona, eating it in small, delicate bites, leaving not even a mote of crumb on his lips to lick off. 

Jokaste let out a huff near Damianos’ ear, her voice pricked with amusement, “I’m jealous. He’s exquisite even when he eats.” 

“Yes,” Kastor smirked, taking the slave’s chin in-hand and tugging his face closer. “He is.” 

Damianos almost fell from his seat at what happened next. Toying with the slave’s lips, Kastor’s thumb slipped inside his mouth, allowing a brief glance at the slave’s pink tongue. He suckled it for a moment. And then bit down. 


	4. Chapter 4

The slap resounded throughout the hall, causing such a ruckus that even Theomedes turned to see what the source was. 

Luckily, the crimson print of Kastor’s hand on Laurent’s face was enough to hide the burn of shame razing its way through his cheeks. He'd been expecting brutality, but that had done nothing to cushion the blow. 

At first, a sudden jolt without pain and Laurent suddenly didn’t know where the ceiling had gone. Then, it stang, tingled, ached. He did not move to comfort himself. 

Eyes stretching past a fuming Kastor, Laurent gauged the reactions of the others at the table, which ranged from riveted to annoyed. Guion had gone pale in the face, but he was so drink-flushed you could only tell if you’d known him. He remembered seeing that same look when Laurent had verbally flayed his third son for spooking a rather exceptional hind in the hunting grounds at Arles. 

“Kastor,” Theomedes said. “If you’re going to discipline him, do it in private.” 

Laurent’s gut twisted. 

“Yes, father.” 

During the feast, Laurent had observed the Akielon courtiers signal their slaves. Insignificant taps and glances meant to coerce them into bed. He’d watched as the Veretian pets’ eyes grew alight with knowing glee when chosen. He waited for Kastor. 

And when Kastor rose with the golden chain still in hand, Laurent could do nothing but watch as Kastor gave the chain to a handler, words hushed, but unmistakably, “ _Take him to my chambers._ ” 

Uncareful with him, they dragged Laurent to his feet, a grip on each of his arms, and he was barely able to get his feet under himself before they escorted him out of the hall. 

Rounding the corner, he heard Kastor’s final words, meant for him to hear, “Who knows, brother? Maybe one day I’ll share him with you.” 

Laurent’s heart bruised against his chest, pulsing through his ears, down into the tips of his fingers. His hearing numbed, instead becoming keenly aware of every point of contact with the handlers. 

Their grip on him tightened. 

Arriving at a grand set of doors, they brought him inside a series of tridenting rooms. Then to the bed-chamber, chaining him to a generous length of gold already wrapped around a column. Alone then, Laurent’s attentions turned to inspecting the room rather than listening to the echo of his own thoughts. 

Far more trappings lined the shelves and tables, mostly weapons, but with the occasional scroll. A carafe of wine. Orchid gardens sewn onto carpet borders. 

Simple, elegant columns of marble with long windows draped in gossamer and ocean breeze. He chanced the doors—solid wood with none of the patterned cutouts allowing wandering voyeurs to pry into the intimacies of a prince. They didn’t have a ring either. Slaves were a demure, private vice. 

That was how things were here. A living hell on the precipice of paradise, where slaves sang of conquest on limestone cliffs to the beat of the tide. His senses cleared. 

The distant sea spray had carried on the wind, the scent of salt chilling as the stone beneath Laurent’s hand as he gazed out into the night. 

With a bedroom facing the waters, it would be too dangerous to attempt escape via a leap of faith. 

Perhaps it was better than the alternative. To crush his form upon the rocks beneath before Kastor ever got his hands on him. 

_No._ Laurent’s hand on the window curled into a fist. _You will live._

He turned around as calmly as he could manage at the sound of the door opening. 

Kastor strolled into his chambers, amused at the sight of Laurent chained not five feet from the bed. His voice scraped against the once quiescent air, “I could have chained you to the floor. Low enough to bow.” 

He spoke in Veretian, barely accented, and that enraged Laurent all the more. He almost would have preferred this barbarian to butcher his native tongue. Instead, he used it as a weapon against Laurent, whose grasp on Akielon couldn’t contend. 

Kastor scooped up the carafe, pouring himself a generous cup of wine and emptying it in a single swig. Placing it down, “But I didn’t.” 

“Would you prefer if I put up a fight? Or is simply having me enough to get you off?” Laurent said without intonation. 

“How low you think of me, Prince of Vere.” 

Laurent felt the hair on his body stand on end and suppressed the shiver threatening to rack through his spine. He eyed Kastor’s approach. 

Kastor said, “I must admit, I thought you’d arrive in iron, not gold.” A sickening grin split through his hard-edged face, somehow worse than Damianos’ blatant ogling. “It’s a good look for you.” 

“Why cavil? Let’s fuck,” Laurent said, reveling in the way Kastor’s jaw twitched. “Kill me even, if that’s what you’d prefer, but it will not make you King.” 

Silence blared. Laurent stared into Kastor’s darkening eyes as he took in the words and felt each blow of awful truth in them. Keeping Laurent from the throne had not ensured Kastor’s own path. Nor would Laurent ever give him the pleasure of ever breaking when Laurent’s willingness to bend to his circumstances was so unyielding. 

Laurent anticipated another blow, but Kastor seemed the type to enjoy having his cruelty put on spectacle. He was a brutish fool and even Uncle had seen that. 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. And finally spoke. 

“Undress me.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**__** _Undress me._

The words came crashing down on Laurent, heavier than a wave. And kept his breath even as he struggled to break the surface with his arms stiff at his sides. 

Kastor smirked, “Have I called your bluff already?” 

Laurent breathed out and approached with an obedient, unprovocative grace. Finally able to stand face-to-face with Kastor, Laurent heeded his size, one that easily eclipsed his own through broad shoulders and dark hair. 

Kastor had fought at Marlas, held the front as Auguste had done. Arrogant as he was, he did not wield the single murder of a Veretian prince around the court in the way Damianos surely had. And as Laurent’s hands unpinned and unwound his garments, letting them fall away from Kastor’s body with a softened thud, Laurent saw every battle in him. 

Even naked, he imposed himself over Laurent, and in knowing that, stepped closer. 

The quiet grind of teeth-on-teeth filled Laurent’s head as Kastor reached for him and the bite of the chain against his skin dissipated as Kastor took hold of it. As though he was a wild animal, Kastor used it to lead Laurent over to the waiting bed. 

He sat on the edge, the mattress sinking with his weight, hand still clutching the chain. Kastor said, “Strip for me.” 

_For you._

He wasn’t some conceited whore that needed to be broken in. But he also wasn’t a willless slave, trained only to please, and Kastor knew that. And Laurent wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of watching him squirm. 

Calmly, he reached for the ring attached to the collar, where a bolt of crimson cloth had been knotted around it. From the side, it had allowed obscene glimpses of his body underneath from where the fabric had waned. Kastor’s eyes tracked Laurent’s hand, something dark and vicious clouding his gaze. 

The fabric continued, elaborately wound low around his hips. Laurent cast it off. It pooled to the floor like blood. 

All that was left were the earrings, heavy drops of ruby plummeting to the floor without care. Laurent rolled his shoulders back with a faint crackle of bone. Free at last from his demeaning garments, Laurent finally stood before Kastor, not as a slave, but as a man. 

He knew then what he must do. It would be better like this. 

An elegant stride forward brought his knee on the bed, between Kastor’s. Laurent looked down at him now—ascetically—the lines of his body hard. Kastor’s eyes widened ever so slightly. 

Straddling him, Laurent inclined his head to the side. Mildly, “I do not disappoint you?” 

Kastor’s leering smile grew leonine at the edges. “Perhaps Vere does have its charms.” He let go of the chain. Placed calloused palms to Laurent’s hips so that he might stay him. 

His hands traveled lower, coming to cup his seat. When his fingers began roughly kneading the flesh Laurent let his eyes fall shut, dipping his head low. Now then—the distance between them was just enough for Laurent to rest his forehead to the span of Kastor’s shoulder. 

A soft chuckle disturbed the air by Laurent’s ear and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped his torso, the bulk of muscle flipping him onto the bed, Laurent’s back meeting the warmed silk. Kastor’s large hands entrapped Laurent, placed at either side of his head. “Your uncle said you were a slut.” 

Of course he had. 

Laurent fisted the sheets to stop his hands from shaking. Once again, he leveled his gaze at Kastor and, carefully, “He also calls me frigid. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me or were my uncle’s fantasies enough?” 

Kastor scowled, flinching away from Laurent beneath him. His simple, Akielon sensibilities wouldn’t allow him to accept something like that. Odd for a man with a harem of slaves. 

Propped up on one elbow, Laurent brought his lips to Kastor’s ear, whispering, “Does that bother you? Poor thing, you wouldn’t last a day in my country.” 

He’d wait till Kastor was inside him before baring his claws completely. Wouldn’t want to frighten the brute off before he staked his claim. 

“Come now.” Laurent sprawled himself out on the pearlescent silks. “Show me the charms of the Akielon prince.” 

Laurent knew how he looked. His blonde hair and blue eyes a rarity in Akielos, coveted by slave traders looking to do business with the princes. Fine skin and delicate features shaped by a lineage of kings. And here he was, putting himself on display for Kastor, naked and under him in his bed. The rocking of the ocean waves drifted into Laurent’s ears. 

Kastor’s eyes raked down his form. He licked his lips. 

As terrible as he was, Kastor wasn’t treating Laurent like one of his slaves. He treated him like a war-prize. A conquest. So be it. 

For a moment he’s off him, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve something. Laurent’s stomach coiled at the realization. Kastor uncapped the glass phial, fragrant oil pouring out onto his fingers. 

Laurent said, “I hope you have more. I take a while to warm up.” 

Kastor lathered his fingers together. “You’re not a virgin then?” Amused, “Then you should be able to loosen yourself up for me.” 

And he handed the phial to Laurent, using his oiled hand to instead work his own length. Laurent eyed his burgeoning length, his grasp on the phial such a vice he thought it might shatter. 


	6. Chapter 6

Laurent’s gaze was trapped between the two harrowing truths set before him: Kastor was going to fuck him and Laurent had to prepare himself for it. 

Sensing his hesitation, Kastor said, “Go on. I wouldn’t want to fuck you bloody and ruin our night together.” 

He did want it, actually. The last thing Laurent wanted from this man was any attempt at pleasure. But Kastor was going through with it now that Laurent had planted that seed in his mind. And he would rather see it flourish now, rather than prick himself with its thorns later. 

Sucking in a breath, Laurent parted his legs, at the pith of which lay his entrance—pinked and tight; the whorl of a shell. The very notion that Kastor would pierce through there was an impossibility in Laurent’s mind. His earlier preparations would prove themselves to be insufficient. 

He reached down, the muscles twitching under his touch. He hadn’t warmed the oil between his fingers. Laurent began in small circles without force behind them, just as the boy in the baths had done. 

Kastor’s eyes bore heavy on Laurent’s hand, sparking with interest when the tip of Laurent’s finger caught on the rim, eliciting the faintest of gasps. He had Kastor enthralled and Laurent seized the chance to press a finger inside. 

It was a violently uncomfortable sensation. His body tensing with the sharp pain accompanying each press forward on a single finger. And his were far slimmer than Kastor’s. Even still, his face heated, bottom lip caught between his teeth. The tang of iron bled across his tongue when he heard Kastor groan. 

One became two, the unsubtle slide of his slicked fingers slowly tendering the flesh it found. His nails dug crescents into his leg as he kept himself pried open for Kastor’s viewing pleasure. 

Then Kastor snatched his ankles and dragged Laurent closer, legs splayed wide, raising gooseflesh in the night air. 

Kastor gave a low, appreciative whistle. “What a view.” He licked his lips, “Hold yourself open for me.” 

_For me._ He kept saying that. It was always about him, wasn’t it? Laurent didn’t have as much time as he’d like to ponder on that before Kastor began forcing one of his fingers into Laurent’s hole. 

A vision of the field at Marlas flashed before Laurent’s eyes. Damianos’ sword running Auguste through with a sure strike and his brother’s form hitting the bloodsoaked earth with a sickening _thud_. Violated beyond possibility. Laurent’s body honed in on the irregularity—at once wishing it purged from his sight, from his heart. Wishing for a world in which Damianos had perished on the and Auguste had lived, as he had on countless, lonely nights. 

But Laurent knew what was possible and what was not. And being raped by Kastor in the heart of Akielos had become indubitable. 

His finger was calloused by years of weapons training, though Laurent had never seen his prowess first hand. It eagerly dug into him, harsh as it scraped against his walls and bruised him from the inside. He added another. 

Luckily, the exertion in enduring such rough handling came off as lustful frustration—the charming delusion of the reluctant virgin. 

“You like that,” Kastor said. Not waiting for an affirmation, he spread his fingers inside Laurent and shoved a third finger within the small space he’d made, sending Laurent groaning. 

And then his hand roughly forced Laurent’s knee to the bed. “I said hold yourself open.” 

Laurent’s knees quaked as he exposed himself, one hand planted under each. 

“Wider. I want to see everything.” 

Shifting his hips under himself, Laurent felt the silk cling to his skin from the sheer amount of sweat. Kastor was viciously fucking his fingers into Laurent’s sore hole as Laurent held himself open. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he summoned a valiant effort to ignore him. Kastor’s silhouetted form above slowly dissolved into the canopy of white above the bed. 

The decorations were simple, the architecture elegant. Laurent had always dreamed of spending a summer in Isthima. Overlooking the white cliffs of Ios as Berenger’s precious Isagoras once had. 

It was only with the stinging press of Kastor’s cock to Laurent’s entrance that he came back to himself. Spongy. Oiled. Larger than anything he’d ever taken. The head was in with the first push. Kastor pulled back—the drag of flesh ripping Laurent apart—before plunging in completely. 

Laurent let out a mangled sound, one of an animal in excruciating agony. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, heedless of the pitiful picture he made. And the words he’d so carefully crafted an hour earlier flew carelessly from his lips: 

“Do you want to be King?” 


	7. Chapter 7

Kastor ground to a searing halt inside him. 

_“What?”_

And Laurent, in his treasonous musings, had travailed himself through ten staggering breaths before realizing that Kastor was, in fact, talking to him. 

Laurent said it again, “Do you want to be King?” 

Gaping down at him, Kastor blinked, incredulous. His large arms supported his weight as surely as the palace pillars, his words sturdy, “I will be.” 

Rasping out a laugh like venom, Laurent narrowed his gaze at him, “Not when you’re so firmly planted under my uncle’s thumb.” 

Laurent wrapped a hand around Kastor’s wrist. His lips twisted when he felt the fluttering pulse against his palm. Carefully sliding his other hand down further, he came to grip the chain still attached to the collar. If only he could have strung it around the thick of Kastor’s throat and wrung the life from his eyes. If only Kastor and his guards outside the doors weren’t built like oxen. 

“He slaved his own Crown Prince and nephew to Akielos. Do you truly believe you can trust a man like that?” The pulse quickened. “Any path you walk with him will end in a bloody betrayal. Perhaps he’ll even become King of Akielos and Vere.” 

Kastor’s jaw tightened. 

And Laurent pushed. “Haven’t you heard?” he said. “We don’t care for bastards in Vere.”

He grit his teeth as Kastor inevitably yanked the chain with force enough to strangle—Laurent’s preemptive grasp on it his saving grace. His spine curved, bowstring-taut, arched away from the bed. He kept his gaze cool, struggling to stay afloat as Kastor’s eyes boiled like tar. 

Kastor leaned closer, his glare sharpened by fervid ambition, “We are not in Vere.” 

Laurent had been right about him, but he wasn’t yet sure how long he’d be made to play this game with one quite so dull. 

“I know,” Laurent said. 

His legs came to wrap around Kastor’s hips. And when Kastor’s hold on the chain laxed in surprise, Laurent laid himself down onto the bed, the silks a welcome soothe on his back. The chain fell from his hand. 

He braced himself. Once. Twice. And began working his hips, fucking himself on Kastor’s cock—miraculously still hard. He imagined it felt much like being impaled on a partisan. Despite the discomfort, he must have made quite the sight, for Kastor’s vice on the chain slackened as he stared down at Laurent with something akin to reverence. 

Kastor flicked his tongue across his lips. To Laurent’s disbelief: he pulled out; slid off the bed; and nestled himself in the mound of throws piled by the headboard. He gave his thigh two, swift pats, and Laurent understood what was required of him. 

The clink of gold and the shift of fabric shattered the silence as Laurent swung a leg over Kastor’s lap and mounted. 

It was worse than before. 

This new position put him and Kastor in full view of the other. He was not unattractive. His features were strong, his body muscled and well-proportioned as if sculpted from bronze. And when the span of his hands ran along Laurent’s sides, Laurent didn’t shudder from its warmth. His skin smelled faintly of cinnamon. 

What some would consider appreciative, Laurent called perverse. Kastor rocked him gently and Laurent pressed a hand to Kastor’s abdomen to steady himself against the crash and break. 

He sighed, “Let me speak.” 

“If you can make it worth my time.” 

“You can put a prince in chains, that does not make him less.” Heat sang intravenous through Laurent’s body, coming to pool in his gut. 

Horrifyingly, Laurent was aware that he was becoming aroused. The sudden seizing of his body caused him to squeeze around Kastor. Kastor took notice as well, the corner of his lips quirking up as he reached for Laurent’s stiffening cock. He pressed a maddening thumb to the head, rubbing in small circles—rougher than the slave boy, but just as deliberate. 

Laurent screwed his eyes shut, attempting to block out the sensations, as he had since being dragged to this infernal country. But the sound of the sea was gone. Only the rise of Kastor’s deep voice. 

“ _Look at you_. How could anyone call you frigid?” 

Laurent opened his eyes. “I will make you King.” And before anything, even his own mouth, could stop him, “With Jokaste as your Queen and kingmaker, and I your strategist, Akielos will be yours.” 

It was bold. 

But so was Kastor. 

“ _Go on_.” 

That’s right, he could spout as many pretty words as he liked, but if Laurent couldn’t make a case for himself then he would be ruined. “I know my uncle. I know his kinds of tricks and I know how he twists his words around you, till you think yourself compensated. You would not be King in his eyes. Just another bastard.” 

Laurent folded his body forward and placed his mouth to Kastor’s. The briefest of touches, hardly a kiss. It was Laurent’s first. 

He began a retreat, but Kastor’s hand on his nape, pressing their lips together, halted him. Fingers carded through his hair and Laurent steeled himself, for Kastor seemed one to yank the gold of Laurent’s hair as liberally as his chain. 

The pain never came, a caress in its place. 

Kastor slipped his tongue inside Laurent’s mouth, where it mingled with his own, and Laurent drank in the taste of wine that lingered on his lips. Laurent craned his head to better fit themselves together. 

Awash in sensations, it was a constant struggle to breathe. Kastor’s cock buried inside him, rolling in deep, languorous thrusts; Kastor’s grip on Laurent’s cock, thumbing hard at the slit; Kastor’s mouth on his—Laurent felt drunk. Indeed intoxicated. Something in the oils they burned for their lamps. Laurent hadn’t needed to visit the pet ring to know how it was done. Rose-hazed steam in the slave baths with petals harlequinning the water’s surface like fresh droplets of blood. 

When they finally broke apart, Laurent was panting, his face flushed and hot. He couldn’t stop looking at Kastor’s lips—parted and wet and plush. 

“Think,” Laurent said with bated breath, “of all that I offer. Who better to assist you in taking Vere than its own Crown Prince?” 

Kastor’s words skimmed along Laurent’s jaw, “Why shouldn’t I reveal you now? You make a lovely hostage.”

“You need my uncle’s trust. Reveal me and you will lose it.”

He barely managed to push the final syllables out before Kastor’s mouth descended back upon his, claiming it with newfound fervor. Every move was a strike of absolute certainty. Kastor caught his wrists—Laurent’s palms placed to the muscled bulk of shoulder, and it was then that Laurent realized he’d been shaking. 

He said softly, “I want Damianos dead.” Louder, “You want Akielos. Our interests align.”

But a tug at the base of his neck lurched his head back and he hissed as Kastor’s teeth sank into the column of his throat. He continued his assault from collarbone to ear, where every salacious sound sat amplified as Kastor used the chain to keep Laurent in place. 

There was no one in the world who could hear his voice. Not one that spoke of pure reason. Laurent needed another approach.

“Keep Delfeur,” said Laurent. “ _you_ —” A tangled sound robbed him of speech and he was left gasping. 

Kastor hummed an appreciative sound against Laurent’s throat that made his skin tingle. “You’re taking my cock so well. I knew you’d make a perfect whore.” 

It had worked. Laurent continued like that, fragments of a futile argument drizzled in honeyed cries and blooming flush. A dulcet stream in lilting Veretian. The illusion of a final, desperate plea—all in a gratuitously carnal display that beseeched, _Humor me._

“Think,” Kastor grunted, brow furrowed. “of me fucking you on the throne for my entire court to see.” 

“Or in front of Damianos.” Laurent keened as Kastor slammed his hips upwards, the strain of his cock splitting him apart. His own cock ached, crushed between Kastor’s fingers yet still dripping with precome. 

“Were you picturing it?” Laurent pushed. “You’ve seen the way he looks at me, like a bitch in heat.” 

The world struck down upon him then. Laurent spreading for his enemy and forcing himself to moan like a whore. All those courtiers, their capricious pets, and those _horrid_ councilors. And then, of course, there was Uncle. Laurent’s _dear_ uncle who’d sentenced him to death in Akielos. Laurent curled a whisper into Kastor’s ear. 

“ _Come and take what’s yours, Kastor._ ” 

And he watched him break. 

Kastor’s hold on Laurent’s hips turned bruising as he fucked into him, Laurent’s cock trapped between their bodies, hard and leaking. The shiver of the chain on his spine in tandem with the twist of warmth in the pit of his stomach as someone—Kastor—reached far deeper than what should have been possible. 

Laurent cried out, coming in hot, white strands as he clung to Kastor, thinking he would shatter without something to ground him. 

Kastor continued fucking him through his orgasm, eventually stilling and releasing inside him with a moan. 

Laurent’s body collapsed, listlessly adrift in silks, soft as white-frothed tides. His limbs were heavy, a soreness ravaging tired muscles where the sting had faded. He had not the energy to resist against the feeling of Kastor’s fingers breaching Laurent’s loosened hole. An open-palmed slap to his ass that forced out a whimper. 

Kastor moved to stroke down the line of Laurent’s back with careless affection. Bemusement crossed his features when he looked over at Laurent, as though surprised to see it was him in his bed. A laugh rumbled deep within Kastor’s chest. 

He said, "Tell me your name.” 

Glancing up, “Laurent.” 

“Laurent.” 

It rolled off his tongue, shaded with an Akielon accent and free of contempt. Laurent supposed he would have to study the language if he were to be an adviser. And in the case of Jokaste’s meddling. 

“Very well,” Kastor said. Those two words were overgrown with familiarity as if he’d said them a thousand times until they’d blossomed into something enough to please. “You’re mine then, Laurent.” 

The hum of Kastor’s breathing beneath Laurent’s fingers as they drew swirling waves along the frieze of Kastor’s chest calmed him more than it should. He felt himself yield further into Kastor’s embrace, laying his head on Kastor’s chest and listening to the solid beat of his heart.

“You’d have to kill your brother,” Laurent spoke so softly he thought his words might have been swept away by the breeze. 

“I know.” 


End file.
